Jenna
by Dimwitch
Summary: [Self-insert as Jenna] This was a bad idea. I was totally not guardian-material. Even less than the original Jenna. At least, she had tried. The best thing I could do against a screaming Jeremy is screaming louder.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I own nothing but the SI.

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Jenna

by Dimwitch

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 _"Spirit of diligence, possess me!"_

 _\- Unknown_

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Chapter One

Mystic Falls, Georgia

3 June 1992

" _You're_ going to college?"

I nodded distractedly, green eyes still intently focused on the (old, old) computer that I was trying to familiarize with.

Let me tell you this: the act itself was stupidly frustrating. I had only been on it for about an hour and a half (a far cry from what I was used to in the first life), but I was ready to tear my hair out.

Because by _all that is holy_ , how did the people in the 1990s do this? Where the heck was Google Chrome when you needed it? Where the heck was _Google_ when you needed it?

I was sick of this ARPANET bullshit.

I expelled a small burst of air through my nose and attempted to relax, flexing my fingers as well as my toes. I was an impatient person by nature, and what little patience I had was rapidly burning away for the irritation bubbling in my stomach.

The ancient machine—a gift from my godfather, who was retiring from office work and having no need for the computer anymore—was propped on top of a precious antique table allegedly from my great-great aunt, and the monitor was situated just beside my bedroom window, so that I could look out at the bunch of trees cluttering our front yard. Something about reminding me of greener pastures so that I wouldn't be "seduced" by the devil technology or whatever.

My mother was old-fashioned, okay?

I pursed my lips and realized that the person I was with was still waiting for my response.

Damn social cues.

I half-twisted around and leveled my sister, the person so against my college-filled future, a dull look. "And _you're_ married to Grayson Gilbert, em-dee." I stressed the important initials after Dr. Gilbert's name, unearthing a plain black hair tie from a drawer. Impatiently combing small fingers through the pretty strawberry blond hair I had been graced with in this life, I fixed my hair-do into a high pony tail and wiped the sweat off my neck with a sigh of disgust.

Honorary older sister (by eight years) Miranda Sommers, now Miranda Sommers-Gilbert, flushed and ducked her head bashfully, like she and the good doctor were still meeting under my window at one o'clock in the morning and not lawfully wedded as husband and wife as of two years ago.

I made a face at her, and she immaturely made a face back. "Don't make this about me." She argued, putting the conversation back on its original course. She crossed her arms against her chest and pouted at me, and for the nth time in this existence, I wondered at her mental age.

Time to put this sharp tongue to use!

"For once," I snorted, (maturely) rolling my eyes. A prompt box appeared on the computer screen, and I clicked on YES. A tacky loading sign appeared before the dialogue box popped up. I appraised it with a distasteful eye.

Ugh, future technology has spoiled me rotten.

"Jenna," Miranda began exasperatedly, sitting on my plain, unremarkable single bed and watching me consciously block her out. The bed creaked under her weight, and I snapped out of my wishful ( _maybe when I block her out, she'll go away_ ) thoughts.

"You're _twelve_." She mimicked my earlier emphasis.

Nope, no, no originality at all. Ugh, grow a dick, Miranda.

Clearing my throat, I typed down the university's official e-mail address on the "Send:" box, and began to construct my letter of appreciation. It began with a professional heading, addressed to Prof. Blah Blah, Ph.D., and included "I am extremely grateful for your blah, blah, blah," somewhere in there.

I had to do a little sucking up, duh.

I glanced at my older sister from the corner of my eyes; Miranda was still looking at me impatiently.

Persistent girl.

I sighed loudly, if only to satisfy her need to be an irritating little pest sometimes.

Okay, now here we have our—rather, Miranda's—problem, ladies and gents. I, Jenna Sommers, was going to college at twelve.

Well, I'm not _actually_ Jenna Sommers, and I'm not _actually_ twelve, but you already knew that, didn't you?

I haven't exactly been trying to keep it a secret, so yeah. Kudos, anyway.

Whom I had been _Before_ ranked first in my No-Fucks-to-Give list, and how old I really was ranked a third (I was _old_ , let's leave it at that), so let's skip past that and just accept that I am a fully functioning reincarnation of another human being.

There, I said it.

I, who had once been someone else, was now, well, _me_. And really, reincarnations, by default, had only two paths: life as a wallflower, or life as the life of the party.

By my _obvious_ hesitance to show the extent of my ability, you can obviously tell which path I was on!

Were people big on sarcasm in the 1990s? I hadn't been a 90s kid. But, meh, now I was.

I shrugged my small shoulders and waited for the e-mail to load, dead-eyed.

I couldn't wait until it was the 21st century. I'd kill to get my hands on an android. Swiping was part of my life; my thumbs ached something fierce, practically incomplete.

Ugh, #ReincarnationProbs.

"So what?" I muttered finally, fed up with the silence.

"You can't go to college at twelve!" Miranda exclaimed, gratified by my answer, however poor a response it was. "You should be in middle school!"

I sighed and twisted around to shoot her a deadpan expression. I raised three fingers. "Alright, Miranda. I have three questions for you." I waved away her protests and pushed on determinedly. "Number one, did I pass their entrance exam?"

She frowned. "Yes."

I nodded. "Good to know. Two, did I get Mom and Dad's permission?"

Her frown grew. "Yes."

I glanced back at the computer and impatiently kicked my foot, seeing the loading sign. "Three, is it good for my future to explore my abilities the best I could?"

"…Yes."

I flashed her the sunniest smile I could muster. "Then why shouldn't I go to college?"

"You'll be alone there!" She protested vehemently, and my smile twisted into an ugly line. "You're moving away from us. From home. Your home. Come on, Jenna."

"I'll make friends." I lied. In truth, I didn't plan on actively making the effort to gather friends; I planned on graduating as early as possible and making money.

Money, money, money. I was going to invest on Facebook. And Google. I was going to businesswoman the business out of business. I was going to turn into Tony Stark—or better yet, Pepper Potts—of this universe.

"Friends who are, by far, older than you!" Miranda was ranting.

I was getting a little impatient. "Miranda, I can handle myself just fine."

"No, you can't!"

"Yes, I can!" I exclaimed, violently clicking the refresh button.

The screen reloaded. I had to retype my letter. FUCK.

"No, you can't!" She bounced on the bed.

"Yes, I can!"

"NO—you can't."

"For God's sake, Miranda, I FUCKING CAN."

Miranda gasped. "Jenna! Language!"

Someone cleared his throat. How this person made it sound so bemusing was beyond me. "Eherm."

Knowing who it was, my big sister and I assumed defensive poses, shoulder hunching, arms crossed. If I stuck my tongue out at her, she made a face at me.

"Am I disturbing something, girls?"

I craned my head to level Dr. Grayson Gilbert, who stood by the doorway to my room, an unimpressed look. He raised a plastic bag of what seemed like fresh mangoes as peace offering.

"Oh, Grayson! Back from hunting?" Miranda greeted happily, dropping her unhappy stance in lieu of standing up and pressing a short kiss to his whiskery cheek. I looked away with a theatrical roll of my eyes.

The argument was far from over, but Miranda had backed off at least.

I began to reconstruct my e-mail, my earlier enthusiasm (if you could even call it such) all but gone. I absolutely hated doing things twice.

(That was going to be a constant thought throughout this reincarnation.)

I heard Grayson chuckle. "Yeah—my pals and I just managed to get some deer, a couple of rabbits and squirrels."

"That sounds…" Miranda trailed off uncertainly. She clearly didn't know what to think of his hunting past time.

Jesus Christ, even _I_ didn't know what to think about Grayson Gilbert's past time. Hunting deer, rabbits, and squirrels? What was he, a cave man?

I told him so at one point during his engagement to Miranda. He looked at me like I was an adorable puppy trying to play for a wolf.

"That's good." I deadpanned from my spot across the room, not even budging to look at them. "You can get your wife out of my room and out my decisions."

"Jenna!"

"She's your sister, you know." Grayson pointed out to me, amused. He was always so level-headed. Killer of Bambi's mother or not, I knew I approved of this man for a reason.

I paused, sent the e-mail again, and faced him. "Before sunset, she's your wife." I moodily altered a Disney quote.

Grayson kept on smiling, puzzled.

Oh, right. Lion King hadn't come out yet. Fuck.

Seeing my distressed expression and mistaking it entirely, Miranda went over and messed with my ponytail with a sickeningly affectionate expression. She had the "motherly eye" down to an art. "Oh, come on, Jenna." She began to tease. "I only want what's best for you. You love me."

"Unfortunately." I sighed and batted her hands away without much heat to my actions. She grinned and doubled her efforts.

"Heard you're off to college?" Grayson asked politely as I pointed him where to put the mangoes. The plastic crinkled as he set the heavenly gift on my desk.

I gave him a thumbs-up, more occupied with staring out of the window and "admiring" the view.

Gotta indulge the mother once in a while, you know.

Grayson whistled admiringly, examining the rest of my room. "You're something else, Jenna. Made for big things."

I gave him another thumbs-up. "At least someone here acknowledges it." I baited.

Miranda smushed my cheeks together and shook my head playfully. "Aww, Jenna. I love you!"

"Unfortunately."

Miranda and Grayson shared a breathless, amused laugh at my expense (that annoying _hahahaha, this child is so cute_ ), and without my meaning to, I joined them, giggling a little behind my hand (because I must never publically give in, you understand). I poked Miranda's stomach, and she shrieked, leaping away. "No, Jenna! Not the stomach!"

"Mmhm." I hummed sagely. "You'll miss me, won't you?"

She nodded, expression melting into something a bit more heartfelt. "Of course I will, kiddo."

Aha. "So that's why you were being so difficult." I stretched, and decided to go easy on her. "Well, at least you're off my hands, now. Grayson, she's your responsibility now."

"Of course, Jenny-wenny." My brother-in-law replied good-naturedly as I shook my fist at him at the nickname. "She's in good hands."

"Very good hands." Miranda continued in a whisper, winking at him.

Ugh, _couples_.

"Oh my God, you two take your flirting elsewhere." I bemoaned tragically.

"As my princess commands." Grayson hummed, wrapping an arm around Miranda's waist. He leaned in and whispered something to her ear, making her giggle. The disgustingly sweet quickly duo made themselves scarce. I sincerely hope they weren't doing anything I wouldn't do in this house. This was my house.

Well, technically, my parents' house, but still. I lived here.

Putting Mr. and Mrs. Gilbert out my thoughts for the time being, I checked the computer screen. I noticed that I had somehow sent two copies of my message, which was weird, considering I had only clicked my mouse once. Don't tell me the first fluke was…well, a fluke!

For a moment, I thought about sending another message that would apologize for the extra copy, but decided to just leave it be. The university will probably just blame it on the computers, anyway.

Hopping off my chair, I looked over the mangoes from Grayson and found another one of the funny little herbs he kept on leaving around the house for some time now. It was a pretty (but useless) purple plant that smelled a little too nature-y for me.

I made a noise of disgust and ran out of my room. "Graysooon! You left one of your leaves with me again!"

I sped down the stairs just in time to catch him and Miranda leap away from each other. I waved the leaf around, and stubbornly refused to acknowledge what I almost caught them doing. Ew. "It smells weird!"

"It's vervain, Miranda." Grayson told me, straightening his clothes with flushed cheeks. He cleared his throat. "Why don't you keep it?" He finally suggested.

"Why would I need vervain?" I asked them childishly, rolling my eyes. "Can I even make tea out of this?"

"Why, little miss genius!" Miranda laughed loudly—a little too loudly, as she fixed her hair and attempted to pretend that she hadn't been sticking her tongue down Grayson's throat just a minute ago. "Didn't you know? Vervain wards off vampires."

"As if vampires are real," I scoffed, a little defensive that I hadn't known. I stuck my tongue out at Miranda. "You're so obsessed, Miranda. Ew."

Grayson laughed wearily. "Alright, alright. Don't fight now, you two. Jenna, keep it. Make it into an earring, or something." He said, recalling my wickedly cool carrot-earrings from two months ago. Now, those had been authentic—at least, right until they began to rot. "As a good-luck charm from both Miranda and I."

I looked the plant over. "I guess it _is_ pretty enough to dangle from my awesome lobes. Okay, Grayson. Whatever you say. You two are such weirdoes."

"Vampires." Miranda mimed reaching for a bite. I threw my slipper at her, and, cackling, sprinted back to my room.

Recovering from my laughter, I dropped myself on the bed and curled into a ball, breathing heavily.

Jenna Sommers.

Miranda Sommers-Gilbert.

Dr. Grayson Gilbert hunting.

Vervain.

Vampires.

I furrowed my eyebrows.

Nah.

It couldn't be.

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A/N: Thank you for reading. Please leave a review; tell me what you think.


	2. Chapter 2

Jenna

by Dimwitch

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" _I'm a damsel. I'm in distress. I can handle this. Have a nice day."_

 _-_ Megara (Disney's _Hercules_ )

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Chapter Two

Pasadena, Massachusetts

23 December 1992

"So, Jenna," cousin Amy from Washington began around a forkful of the Christmas Special lasagna, curiously peering at me from behind the thick frames of her glasses. "How's college?"

I smiled blandly and raised a hand, motioning for her to wait while I finished chewing the mouthful of delicious spaghetti I had practically shoveled down my throat.

(Good _God_ , this dish was something else.)

Mom glanced at me, shortly breaking off from her conversation with Grandma, and nodded approvingly at my manners before she resumed talking about crochet. She had started almost immediately after she spotted her mother smuggling these little unfinished socks from beneath the table. Grandma was very receptive to it once she realized Mom wasn't going to complain about her crocheting in the middle of the family Christmas dinner.

Glad you approve of my manners, Ma. You raised me right.

Congratulations.

Celebrating Christmas in the eighties and nineties was a bit different from the whole she-bang of the twenty-first century. Oh, there was a lot of food, alright, not to mention spending, but around these parts and times there were no cellphones to hide behind, so I actually had to talk to people, with people, to please people.

Fortunately for my technology-spoiled soul, I grew up into it, so I could actually be mature about this one thing. Sue me.

I was on the holiday break from my first year (back) in university, and to celebrate Jesus Christ's birth—the Sommers were strictly Roman Catholic, and the Gilberts were Protestants, and all-around we were Christians, which was interesting since I was somewhat non-religious in my past life—the whole family agreed to come to the city where I studied.

Grandma managed to get reservations for the family in this really good restaurant (because apparently she dated the grandfather of the restaurant's owner during World War II), and now here we were, holding the family dinner in the high-end part of the city, listening to other dining families chatter and laugh, and at some point, even sing along to the Christmas carols.

The clan (because we were that many, I kid you not) monopolized two long tables that the management had arranged a little ways away from the main area. The ones in attendance were us, the Sommers, seated by the head of the table (because we were the honorary organizers of this get-together), and then there were some of Mom's family from all over the States: Amy's branch from Washington, and then there was Sarah from Queens, and a bit late to arrive was Donny with his girlfriend from Edinburgh, both having been stationed in Atlanta. Dad's brother had flown in from Japan, too, bringing his beautiful Asian boyfriend and his boyfriend's siblings. Dad's other brother was in a tour, and thus couldn't come.

So like I said—a clan! I kid you the fucking not.

But to be honest, it was a little nice.

I was a bitch about it most of the times, but I really liked this family. In the past life, I had been an only child with relatives who couldn't be bothered to come together.

And—where was I?

Right! Amy from Washington had asked me a question.

How's college?

Huh, for a two-word query, that was some heavy shit. How should I answer that?

Oh, about so-so, except maybe four-hundred percent worse because I have to go through all that shit all over again. Fuck Professor Johnston, really. Fuck that man.

Okay, no. I swore not to even think about Professor Johnston (and his stupid, stupid grading system) during the holidays.

I wiped my lips with the gorgeously embroidered table-napkin and shrugged at her, putting my fork down with a quiet clink. "Okay, I guess." I answered unenthusiastically. "But, I'm happier here, having this holiday."

She chuckled, finding that funny for some reason. "I get ya!" She chirped, reaching for another serving of the lasagna. Her younger brother Dominic passed her the serving platter. "I wouldn't go back to college a second time," she told me, punctuating her words very seriously, "Even if you paid me a million bucks."

Good for her she wasn't me, then. Amy, from what I've heard from Mom, was a freelance photographer who doubled as a journalist for some publication or another. She traveled around often.

"You took Business Administration, right?" She asked, jabbing her spoon in my direction.

I speared my fork into the pile of spaghetti on my plate, and twirled it distractedly, winding the noodles around the tines. "Uh-huh," I made a non-committal noise from the back of my throat, and waved the question off. "I might take something else in the future, though, since no one will want to hire an eighteen-year-old girl."

Amy raised an auburn eyebrow. "You're planning on getting a Master's on it?"

I shrugged again, not really prepared to answer that question. My goals for the future had revolved around get-hella-rich and make-it-quick.

"If it's worth it," I provided vaguely.

She laughed once, and reached out a hand for me to high-five. "You're a badass. I like you!"

"Amelia Linda Grace!" Grandma thundered, interrupting Mom mid-crochet talk. The old lady squinted at Amy and repositioned her reading glasses, while my mother looked on with an exasperated expression, hands frozen in the air from where she was gesticulating wildly about one thing or another. "None of that awful language on the dining table!"

"Sorry, Gran." Amy apologized, ducking her head meekly. I ducked my own sympathetically, or maybe out of reflex—Grandma really wasn't someone anyone in the family wanted to cross. Dad still goes on about the time the woman actually challenged her to a gun-fight for Mom's hand.

He had been so sure he was going to die.

"It won't happen again." Amy promised, sounding a touch bit long-suffering. Grandma sniffed, looked away, and gestured for Mom to continue.

When Amy was certain Grandma wasn't looking, she rolled her eyes so hard I thought she was going to pull a muscle. Dominic frowned at her and elbowed her in warning, but she only stuck her tongue out at him.

Shrugging at me, Amy struck up a conversation with Sarah, who was a professor, and asked about the older woman's boyfriend of fourteen years. It was something of a clan legend—everybody knew about Sarah's boyfriend of fourteen years, but nobody's really actually met him yet.

With nothing better to do, I began to surreptitiously drop my eaves. I was kinda bored; Miranda hadn't arrived yet.

"I'm half-tempted to just dump him," I heard Sarah confess, "But then we'd been together so long, I'm afraid I'd just take him back two hours after."

"Don't you think maybe you guys should try dating other people, just to see?" Amy suggested, sounding a bit uncertain. She pursed her lips. "I mean, _wow_. Fourteen years is a long, long time. The longest I've had was, what, half a year?"

Dominic helpfully piped in. "Yeah, I remember." He raised an eyebrow. "Lin from Maths, right?"

"Yeah," Amy agreed unenthusiastically. "Lin."

Sarah laughed, and sounded like chiming bells while she was at it. I took another look at her and decided she was one gorgeous woman. I could see a little bit of my sister in her nose. "I'm thirty years old, Amelia," she was saying, "Trust me; we've tried."

"That's sorta like true love now." I pointed out, disrupting their conversation.

Sarah's eyes sparkled as she looked me over, her surprise at my sudden intrusion melting away for something fonder. "Oh, hello, Jenna!" She greeted warmly. "How are you?"

Being twelve sucked. "Eh, so-so," I replied with a dry smile, leaning towards them. I gestured to her ringless fingers. "Is he planning to pop the question soon?" I asked, mouthing at the straw of my screwpine shake.

She looked down and played with her plate of _lumpia_. "To be honest, I do not know." She admitted.

Amy made a strange sound from the back of her throat. "Uh-oh." She winced. "Go on."

Sarah chuckled and sighed. "Gareth is," she struggled for several moments, before smiling wryly, "Gareth has issues. I have issues. It'll happen when it happens."

"Oh, Sarah," Amy began sympathetically. She glanced at me, and I immediately retreated, bobbing my head in understanding. "You two go on." I said. "I have no business discussing relationships, considering I have no advice to give."

Twisting around and looking for someone to talk to, I stretched my arms and my legs, arching my back to relieve the tension around my shoulder blades.

"Dad," I began in a reasonable volume, craning my neck to get my father's attention. He was talking with the brother from Japan, Uncle Michael.

When it was clear that he didn't hear me, I frowned. "Dad!"

Uncle Michael glanced at me, ripping his gaze away from his brother. Dad was still talking.

I kicked my feet impatiently under the table. "Dad!"

"Raph, your daughter wants to talk to you." Uncle Michael pointed out, bemused. Dad abruptly stopped talking and turned to look at me with raised bushy eyebrows. "Sorry about that, Jen." Dad took a sip from his bottle of beer and asked, a little impatiently, "What is it?"

"When's Miranda going to arrive? It's been thirty minutes." I complained, pouting at him imploringly, as if giving him the puppy look would make Miranda arrive faster.

I hadn't seen my older sister in person since the day she and Grayson drove me to the university. There had been phone calls, yes, and letters (writing in straight lines was a fucking chore), but considering that Mom was still wary of cellphones (Dad assured me she was warming up to them, however), I hadn't been able to keep in touch as much as I wanted to.

Dad checked his wristwatch, and then checked the restaurant's wall clock for good measure. Nope, still thirty minutes late, that silly woman.

"She'll be here in a while, sweetheart." He reassured me uselessly. I gave him a dark look, and he shrugged. "You know your sister, always getting distracted by little things." He grunted.

"Right." I deadpanned. For a brief moment, I thought about making a penis joke on Grayson's expense, but remembered that some ears around this table were conservative. Disappointed, I bit my tongue and sulked.

Seeing my cloudy expression, Uncle Michael chuckled and patted Dad's arm, smiling at me comfortingly. A soft man, Uncle Michael was—a gentle giant, considering he was six-feet-and-five-inches tall. "She's just probably preparing a surprise for you." He hinted with a conspiring wink.

I straightened my spine, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.

Uh-oh. A surprise?

"Mike!" Dad exclaimed, shoving his brother playfully. I pursed my lips at them. "No clues, ya goof!"

"Look at her, Raph," Uncle Michael strangled out amidst hearty laughs, "She's practically vibrating in her seat with worry!"

"I am not," I protested, but it was no use; they weren't listening to me anymore. Agh, adults.

With a dramatic sigh, I turned my attention to Uncle Michael's boyfriend: a short, dark-haired Japanese man who was, as opposed to the sheer muscle and size that was my flesh and blood, short and a bit soft around the edges. What was his name again? The poor guy—Haru, was it? Or Haruto?—looked a little overwhelmed by all the racket.

"Haru, right?" I began, sending him a sweet, trapping smile.

He jumped, surprised by the address, and nodded so vigorously I was half afraid his head would fly off his neck. "Yes," he spoke in little accented English, flushing from his cheeks to the very tips of his ears. "I am Haru Tanaka." He added quickly, and thought for a beat, "You are Jenna, correct?"

I nodded approvingly, glad that he made an effort to recall my name. "What do I call you?" I asked, thinking back to all the animated series I had consumed as a teenager in the first life. I couldn't wait until they came out again—I was going to have a blast trolling spoilers in the Internet. "Mr. Tanaka? Or Tanaka-san?"

Haru blinked, looking a bit surprised, but then his expression morphed into something that was vaguely pleased. He looked like a cat—a very pretty one.

"There is no need to be so formal with me, Jenna." He said warmly, hands clasped tightly on his lap. "You are aware of my culture's…suffixes?"

"Only a little." I put my forefinger and my thumb close together to show just how poorly I knew of the subject. "Is it alright if I called you by your first name, then?" I assumed, looking down at my plate and the heap of spaghetti that still remained untouched. "Uncle Haru?" I tested out.

An absolutely gorgeous smile split and grew on Haru's face. I had to give Uncle Michael some credit here—he hit soulmate jackpot. He better not lose this one, or I was going to give him the dressing down of a lifetime.

"That would be," Haru paused, "Nice. Thank you very much, Jenna."

"No problem." I gave him two thumbs-up, and sighed when the far end of the table burst out into noise. Donny, the relative with the girlfriend from Scotland, had stood up—a little unsteadily, might I add; his grinning girlfriend was the culprit—to greet a new arrival.

I craned my neck and smiled when I saw a somewhat harried-looking Grayson. Thank God he was finally here. Where Grayson went, Miranda followed—even if Grayson was dressed in a drab jacket and plaid button-ups.

True to word, Miranda entered the restaurant a couple of moments later, carrying a-wait.

Wait, what!?

I paused and felt dizzy all of a sudden. Hearing the snickers from my Uncle Michael's general direction, I scrubbed my eyes.

Yeah, _nope_. Still the same picture.

Dad chuckled and raised his beer in salutations. I wondered why he was so happy about this. It was not natural. "Surprise, Jen."

(I think it was this incident that made me hate all kinds of surprises.)

"Is that a fucking baby?" I demanded loudly, alarmed. Amy shoved a fist into her mouth and muffled a chortle. A quick glance revealed that mother was looking at me distressfully—but _knowingly—_ and that was all I needed to see. They _knew_. Oh God, they knew, and nobody told me.

"Oh my God, Miranda, is that a fucking baby?!" I hissed.

Grandma turned her offended, beady eyes on me. "Jenna Patricia! Watch your language!"

* * *

"Are you mad at me?" Miranda whispered, tucking the baby on her lap, against her bosom, while maneuvering a spoon of fruit salad into her mouth. Seeing her struggle so, Grayson sighed in a fond, but tired manner, and made grabby hands for the infant.

My older sister smiled gratefully and passed the bundle over to him without thinking twice. The poor man, looking just about half-asleep _ala_ zombie, shuffled it onto his lap and struck up a conversation with Haru, who cooed at the baby adoringly.

"Such a cute baby!" The Japanese man was saying. "Kawaii ne!"

"She is rather adorable." Grayson admitted proudly.

It was like watching the opening credits of a horror movie.

 _Or better yet_ , I thought acidly, _a trainwreck waiting to happen_. And even if I wanted to, I couldn't look away.

"The first thing you eat is the dessert?" I asked instead of answering Miranda, spinning more spaghetti into my plate. I dragged the sauced noodles around the plate's shiny, porcelain surface, listening to the clink and cringe-worthy scrape of the fork.

The baby—a little girl in a typical pink blanket—was chubby.

"Dad told me their fruit salads were good," my sister moaned, chewing quickly. She pointed her fork at me, thines down, "And he's totally right. I'm going to steal their recipe."

I sighed heavily and put spaghetti into my mouth, not even deigning her with a reply. _Chew, Jenna_ , I reminded myself robotically. Chew.

 _The TV show is just a TV show_ , I consoled myself, but I could already feel my doubts take root. I tried to shake off the heavy, grim feeling that settled in my chest. It was persistent. It would not go. I knew immediately that it was there to stay.

Fuck.

 _This is just another coincidence. The universe is just having a laugh at you_.

I looked sideways and grimaced—the baby was still chubby, and unfortunately, real.

After swallowing and licking my lips free of tomato sauce, I addressed my older sister. "Miranda, we have a diabetic bloodline." I reminded her sternly, focusing on a lighter topic: that is, fruit salad.

"Yeah, and you're adopted because you only love sour and salty things." She shot back without missing a beat, waving for Amy to pass her the other bowl of fruit salad.

I held up a finger. "Okay, one, I don't love sour and salty things, I _prefer_ them. There's a difference." I sniffed. "Two, I am aware that I have a real risk of getting kidney stones if I over-eat food of such variety, and I don't, so that automatically makes me win." She opened her mouth, but I interrupted her, raising a third finger. "And three, lastly, Grandma likes salty and sour things with me, so clearly I'm not adopted."

She scoffed. "Look at you," she managed to garble out with a teasing sneer, spewing a bit of cream at me. I made a face at her and wiped my cheek. "Using that educated, look-at-me-I'm-a-genius tone-"

"Girls," Mom chastised, peering at our side of the table with a light frown. She was now trying to get Dad's attention, which—yeah, okay, good luck with that, Mom. "No arguing. It's Christmas!"

"Okay, Ma," Miranda and I chorused. I kicked her feet under the table, and she elbowed my ribs pointedly. Sisters.

"You still haven't answered my question." Miranda hissed, accepting a small batch of breadsticks passed her way.

I took a deep breath, and felt like a volcano on the verge of erupting. "Okay, yeah, Miranda? What was I supposed to say to that?

I don't give a single fuck about the baby, honestly.

Not when it's going to bring drama crashing down _unflinchingly_ to this family. My family, Miranda. _MY family_. This beautiful, untouchable, and precious family I hold close to my beating heart-

What I was bothered about was that you adopted a baby and nobody told me! Of course I was mad; this was terribly important. This little demon—don't you realize—can't you see?!" was what I didn't say.

I've never been good with words and emotions, even to Miranda, my only sister, whom I loved the most in this life.

Everything was falling into place, like perfecty placed puzzle pieces, and I didn't want it to because there was a chance—a horrifyingly humongous chance that I was, for some fucked up reason, living in a TV series, and the most important person to me was going to die in a car crash for some teenage drama bullshit because of romance and plot.

No, Miranda. _What do you think, Miranda_?

My beautiful, beautiful Miranda and her Grayson were going to die so that the teenager protagonist could have an angsty background. Collateral damage, practically forgotten two seasons in because all anyone cared about was the undead, so much that they forgot to respect those who _did_ remain dead.

I shakily snatched a couple of breadsticks for myself when she swung her arm, passing the little basket over to Amy. "Do I look mad?" I asked her with forced calm, sticking the breadstick into my spaghetti and souping up the remaining sauce.

"Yes."

"Do I sound mad?"

"Totally."

I pursed my lips. "Then I am mad, genius."

"Jenna!"

"What?" I demanded. "Did you want me to _lie_ to you?" I snapped viciously.

Miranda flinched, shot me an honest-to-God hurt look, and like a broken dam I felt all my fury drain away. I put my hands on my lap and ducked my head, avoiding her eyes.

Okay, yeah, I was a little fucking terrified. Whoop.

"I was just surprised, is all." I mumbled after a long, awkward silence between the two of us. "It's—all very sudden." I faked an unconvincing laugh. "You didn't even go through the let's-get-a-dog phase. What happened to baby steps?"

Miranda smiled hesitantly and cocked her head in the infant's direction. "We took it literally."

I snorted, and the tension, just like that, chipped away. She slung an arm over my shoulders, and I shifted, leaning towards her so that I could get closer.

"I don't like babies." I murmured. "Babies don't like me. It's a mutual sentiment."

Miranda scoffed and looked at me like I was being silly. "Oh, _come on_." She teased. "You haven't even seen, let alone _touched_ , a real life baby before. Seriously. Grayson," Grayson looked over at us, and Miranda held out her arms, "Can you—yeah, thanks honey."

Grayson had passed the baby back to Miranda, and Miranda, in turn, had a strange gleam in her eye. I felt my skin crawl at the sudden proximity I shared with the—the—the baby.

Watching its face crumple in confusion and distress was oddly satisfying.

"Miranda—what? No!" I hissed, scooting away from her when she thrust the baby into my personal space. "Miranda, I'm serious," I blubbered, waving my arms frantically, "This probably is some sort of child abus—oh!"

Yeah, too late, the bitch pushed the little wriggly thing into my arms.

"It's heavy!" I exclaimed after a single, terrified beat. "Miranda, what are you—I'm going to drop her!"

"No, you won't." Miranda reassured me.

I glared at her venomously. "Miranda, I'm sure this qualifies for irresponsible parenting." I gripped the baby tight and raised it in the air, groaning when it made a small noise. "Oh God, oh God, oh God, is she going to cry?" I demanded of my sister. " _Miranda_!"

"Haha, look at you!" She giggled. "This is hilarious! Jenna-"

"Miranda!" I snapped impatiently, frustrated.

"You're doing just fine, Jen. I promise." She paused, and smiled endearingly at us both. She turned to Grayson, who was watching her with soft eyes. "Hey, Gray, pass me the Polaroid please?" She asked sweetly.

Grayson obliged, digging out the camera from his bag.

"Miranda, she's moving." I gurgled uncomfortably.

She turned back to face us with a wry smile. "Living things tend to do that, little sister." She leaned back, and snapped a picture. "Oh, the two of you look so precious." She rushed out in a single breath. "Jenna and Elena, my little girls."

I paused, and my arms shook with the effort to hold the thing up.

"Elena?" I repeated faintly, posing it as a question.

My heart fell to the pits of my stomach.

"Yeah." Miranda confirmed. "She's…well, it's pretty complicated. She's the child of—do you remember Isobel Flemming? You didn't know her, of course, but she, um-"

"Yeah." I cut her off and licked my dried lips. "Mom—yeah, she wrote me about the Flemming woman."

(Everybody thought that because Grayson was her doctor, she was going to seduce him from my sister or something equally preposterous. Mom wrote very scathing paragraphs in her letters, you would think she wasn't one for encouraging Christian kindness. Mom even confided to me that she suspected Flemming was carrying Grayson's child—explaining his extreme willingness to help her. It was all very tense and stifled—you know small towns.)

Slander and lies. Grayson _loved_ Miranda. Even I, bitter that I was, could see that.

"Well, since no one was going to adopt this little girl, Grayson and I decided to adopt her. We named her Elena. It means 'shining light'," Miranda sighed wistfully. "It's a good, strong name, don't you think? Dad thought so. Our little shooting star. Grayson's taken to calling her 'Comet', did you know?"

No, because you haven't told me before today that she existed. Good God, Miranda.

"Elena." I repeated dully, strangely feeling disconnected with myself. "It's a Spanish version. Of the Greek name Helen."

"Helen?" Echoed Miranda, sounding absolutely delighted by the parallels. "Like Helen of Troy? The one that prince kidnapped from an awful king? Sounds romantic!"

My breath stuttered.

The woman countries went to war for. Thousands died for this woman, Miranda—for what?

I gripped the baby—Elena—harder. It began to sniffle.

"Hold her gently, Jenna." Miranda reminded me sternly.

"I _am_ holding her gently." I muttered, looking at it dispassionately. My fingers dug into its soft skin.

 _It's still just a baby_ , I told myself desperately. Surely, I wouldn't sink that low. _It is an innocent-_

(Elena, oathbreaker, who functioned with her own rules and according to her own morals and loyalty, however changing-)

- _harmless-_

(My sister dying upon impact, her husband drowning in a river-)

- _baby._

"I won't allow it." I murmured, feeling far away even as I held the infant within arm's length. Everything felt slow and sluggish, and I wondered if I would faint.

Amy glanced at me. "I beg your pardon?" She asked. To Miranda, she winked, "Cute baby, by the way."

"Nothing." I whispered, just as Miranda beamed proudly and thanked our cousin.

* * *

A/N: Thank you for reading! Don't forget to leave a review, tell me what you think. I'm sure you have noticed the inconsistencies with the pronouns Jenna uses with respect to baby Elena, and that's exactly that they're meant to be. She uses "she" and "her" in actual conversations, but internally it's just all "it" and "its". Please notify me for any mistakes in grammar, spelling, and punctuation. English is not my first language. Have a nice day!


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